And if, God forbid, he forgets what she looks like, he can look at the picture on his phone. She doesn’t know he took that picture of her lying in bed, asleep, with a tiny smile on her face.
It isn’t recent. The picture is from the last night they spent together, almost a year ago, right before they broke up. When she had said, Never, never, never again. He had kept the picture as the wallpaper on his phone for a week after that, until finally forcing himself to remove it.
Now it’s back. Along with Ivy.
This morning, he woke up to the smell of breakfast. Ivy, in the kitchen, cooking for him.
Never happened before. He doesn’t count the Hot Pockets or the leftovers she microwaved back when they were broke. This morning, she made mushroom-and-cheese omelets with toast and fresh coffee. Ivy handed him a cup when he walked into the kitchen.
“This is amazing,” he said.
“Thank you.” She leaned over and kissed him, holding it longer than a peck but not as long as he wanted. “You’re welcome.”
While eating, they talked about their work, the day ahead, and their future plans. All normal things, like they did this every morning. Ivy is going out tonight with her coworkers, and he is watching the Warriors game at a sports bar with his friends.
“Should we get together after?” she asked.
Yes. A billion times yes. “If you want,” he said. “I’ll text you when the game is over.”
“Sounds good.” She shrugged a little, taking a bite of her omelet.
His most difficult task of the day was waiting to see her again.
Being late was the second. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, but by the time he’d left her place and went home to shower and change, he was already behind schedule. And he had to pick up his regular large coffee because the stuff Ivy made was a little weak. He wasn’t about to tell her that, though.
* * *
—
Ivy tries to concentrate on her Chinese lessons. Yesterday, she had no problem learning ten new words—her daily goal—but this afternoon is different. She keeps thinking about what happened last night. About Wes.
He’s always been the one. Even when they’re apart, even when they hate each other, she still knows that.
She has known it since college, when they went out one night to a cheap midnight movie. He had parked next to a puddle, and when she got out of the car, she stepped right in it, soaking the one nice pair of shoes she had. He stayed up that night blow-drying them.
To this day, he checks to make sure he isn’t parking next to a puddle. He drives around for blocks if that’s what it takes.
Contrary to what her best friend might say, getting back together with him isn’t stupid or na?ve. She knows what she’s doing. Mostly.
Like last night, she hadn’t planned on saying they should get back together. It just popped out. Her mouth had been working faster than her brain. That doesn’t happen often anymore. She is no longer that impulsive girl who acts on every whim. These days, she deliberately thinks before she acts. Mostly.
But not last night. Not with Wes.
Sometimes it feels like her subconscious is ten steps ahead, leading her exactly in the direction she should go. Or the direction it wants her to go. She has never figured out if that buried part of her brain has good intentions or bad. No doubt Wes would have a few thoughts about that if she asked. She hasn’t.
Her work chat pops up on the screen. It’s Lucia and Brooke, the two colleagues she actually socializes with outside of the office.
Brooke: Just checking in!
Lucia: How are you doing?
Ivy: Doing well, thanks.
Brooke: Nothing from the stalker?
Ivy: Nope. Or the police.
Brooke: In this case, no news has to be good.
Lucia: We still good for tonight?
Ivy: Absolutely.
Drinks tonight, followed by food and more drinks. Brooke has become a pretty good friend over the past year. Lucia is a little newer to the group. All three have bonded in their collective corporate boredom, and they all have extracurricular activities. Ivy has her language lessons, and Brooke has a growing influencer account under a fake name. Lucia works a part-time job online while she’s in the office.
Ivy closes the chat and picks up the phone, again, to call Detective Karen Colglazier. All she has to do is say she spoke to Wes, they made up, and everything is fine now. Sure, it would make her sound dysfunctional, not to mention a little crazy, but at least the police wouldn’t show up at Wes’s job again.
She just hasn’t called yet.
When Ivy first met Karen, she was surprised at how seriously the detective took her complaint. She hadn’t expected that. And when Ivy gave her the name of her ex-boyfriend, Karen was positive she could end this quickly.
“You’d be surprised how many stalkers disappear after a visit from the police,” she said.
“Really?” Ivy said. “You’re going to go talk to him?”
“We’ll just have a little chat. Usually that’s all it takes.”
Ivy replays this conversation in her mind, recalling how confident Karen had sounded. She would take care of this: That was her attitude. Just leave it to the professionals.
Maybe she doesn’t have to call the detective. In fact, maybe it’s better if she doesn’t. Karen will think she worked her police magic, scared off Wes, and the whole thing went away.
Ivy puts down the phone.
8
Bianca opens her pocket mirror, reapplies her neutral lipstick, and checks her eyeliner, dabbing at the corner to erase a smudge. She’s careful about her makeup—not too much, not too little—because she’s the first one people see. One time, a sales rep said she looked exotic, presumably because she’s biracial. Half-Mexican, half-white. Apparently, he didn’t know the word exotic is not okay. That put him on her radar.
Not tonight, though. Tonight is about Wes.
Again.
Six thirty on a Friday evening, and almost everyone is gone. The only one left is Tanner. Though she’s heard others say that he sometimes acts like an overgrown frat boy, he is actually a very hard worker. One of the last to leave the office, even right before the weekend.
Bianca stays, cleaning out her inbox and writing up meeting notes, until Tanner finally comes out of his office.
“Go home,” he says to her. “It’s Friday.”
“I’m just about done.”
Tanner smiles. “No big plans tonight? I can’t believe that.”
She waves goodbye, doesn’t answer.
He walks down the hall and gets on the elevator, but she still doesn’t move. Bianca waits another fifteen minutes, just in case Tanner forgot something and returns. When he doesn’t, she takes out the nesting dolls to get the key. It’s just after seven, which gives her several hours before the overnight cleaning crew starts to arrive. Plenty of time.
Wes doesn’t have a corner office, because he isn’t a manager or director, but it’s respectable enough. Decent size, plenty of seating for clients, including a small couch in the far corner. His desk is neat—no papers, no sticky notes—clear of all clutter. The Siphon employee handbook specifically states that any personal items are to be “tasteful and limited.” Wes has only one that’s visible: a picture of himself, his sister, and his parents.
In his top drawer, he has a few things pushed into the far corner. A brass key chain, tarnished and scratched and engraved with a heart, along with a deflated HAPPY BIRTHDAY balloon, and an old parking sticker for a downtown garage. She found all of those a long time ago.